


Echoes

by Dordean



Category: Westworld (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Overdosing, So much angst, Suicide, They all deserve better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 11:19:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15169595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean
Summary: She doesn't think much about that night - not even when Logan drinks himself unconscious at her wedding - not until the call comes, not until seeing his lifeless body in the morgue - she doesn't want to look, doesn't think she can cope, and yet she stares, taking in all the details - the ashen colour of his skin, his fingers curled up into fists, his lips bitten to the point of drawing blood that makeup doesn't quite manage to cover.





	Echoes

**Author's Note:**

> My obsession is showing. I was invested in Logan's arch back at the beginning of season 2 and to say the finale floored me is to say nothing at all.
> 
> My babies. My babies deserve better.
> 
> Kudos and comments are life - I'm also on [Tumblr](https://andordean.tumblr.com/), come say hi!

***

“Don't marry him.”

Logan’s words ring loud in the calm of the night. 

“What?” 

Juliet glares at him, but he seems unmoved by her irritation, all nonchalance and charm, so fucking _typical_.

She takes a breath, trying to quell the anger. She came outside to escape the crowds and to get some fresh air, not to be told what she should and shouldn't do with her life - especially not by her mess of a brother.

He's leaning against the balustrade by the pool. It's not yet midnight and he’s already abandoned the pretence of elegance: his suit jacket is gone, the top buttons of his shirt open, a glass of whisky in his hand, a half-empty bottle beside him on the deckchair. 

He's clearly drunk, but that's nothing unusual - he seems to be constantly on some chemical shit these days. And it's not like she's sober either, although she manages to put on a better performance. Maybe the only difference between them is that she's not trying her damn best to piss off their father.

But the alcohol still doesn't explain his earlier words.

Logan casts a glance at the garden pavilion, swarmed with people celebrating yet another Delos’ success story - whatever that is this time - and turns away with an ugly grimace.

“Don't marry him,” he repeats in a quiet voice.

“You're drunk,” she shoots back, anger replaced by confusion; this is the first time ever that her brother has openly expressed any interest in her life. 

“Naturally,” he shrugs. “How else do you expect me to endure this fucking circus? But my point still stands.”

She turns towards the sea too. The view never disappoints: the slope drops gently to meet the water below, the city lights glimmer across the bay; the air is heavy with a sweet scent of some unidentified flowers - but Logan doesn't seem to be particularly interested in any of this. He's staring into the distance, an absent expression on his face.

“Why are you saying that?” she urges, studying him. “And since when do you even _care_?”

He shrugs again and takes a sip - or more of a gulp - of whisky.

“You're my sister. And he's... _vile_. Corrupted.”

She barks out a laugh. William, her quiet, sweet Bill, described as evil by Prince Asshole himself - well, that’s definitely new.

“In the park…” his voice trails off; he looks down into his drink before knocking it back.

That makes her take a first proper look at him. Never before has he said a word about that one time he took Bill to Westworld, neither has he gone back to the park since - and he's always dodged any questions she might have had. 

“What happened?” she probes, leaning forward, her curiosity piqued. 

“He’s...done things. Lost control.” 

His voice is strained, the words forced, and that makes Juliet strangely worried. Not about her future marriage - she can take care of herself, thank you for asking - but about that idiot here. 

The fantasy world her family invested in was designed to let yourself loose - she took advantage of that herself, and on more than one occasion - but whatever he and Bill got themselves into while in there has clearly shaken Logan, and that's not an easy feat.

“So have you, from what I've heard,” she points out. “Hosts killed or maimed, orgies...”

“It's...different,” he shakes his head, not meeting her eyes. “ _He's_ different.”

That sounds out of place, especially coming from him, and she wants to dig deeper, ask more questions, but a group of guests approaches them then, loud and merry, interrupting their privacy. 

Mesmerised, she watches as Logan slips back into his charming, arrogant persona. If there is anything that is bothering him, it’s now firmly hidden behind that cheeky smile of his. And as he hits on the most attractive woman in the group, one of the models their father invited for decorative purposes, she knows the moment is gone; she won't get anything else out of him tonight.

She turns the scene over and over in her head for a few days, but he doesn't bring up the subject again and so she ultimately dismisses the whole thing as drunk blubbering. After all, the very reason she chose Bill is his innocence - a stark contrast to all the other men in her life, her brother included.

***

She doesn't think much about that night - not even when Logan drinks himself unconscious at her wedding - not until the call comes, not until seeing his lifeless body in the morgue - she doesn't want to look, doesn't think she can cope, and yet she stares, taking in all the details - the ashen colour of his skin, his fingers curled up into fists, his lips bitten to the point of drawing blood that makeup doesn't quite manage to cover.

William is his usual, calm self at her side as they're watching the urn with Logan’s ashes deposited in the family crypt, but this time something about that calm feels off to her. 

_“It's different.”_ Logan says in her mind, over and over again. _“He's different.”_

She finds herself vehemently wishing she knew what he meant, that night, all those months ago; wishing she knew what happened to him, wishing that he had come to her before...before _that_.

She finds herself wishing she knew her brother. 

***

It feels almost like she's drowning.

William’s words are coming from a distance that manages to be both unimaginably large, and small to the point of suffocating.

They’re like knives, slicing through the last of her hopes, her illusions.

She has never felt so lonely in her entire life. 

“Everything you feel is true,” William says from this bottomless abyss he seems to exist in, and this right here: the fact that she _knew all along_ , is the worst part of this hell.

“ _He's different_ ” echoes in her mind. 

She wants to gasp for breath, but she has to remain calm, to maintain the illusion of sleep. She has to hear it all, here and now. 

She will get her answers, even if it costs her...everything. 

It already cost her her brother - and her sanity. What more does she have to lose?

A blinding thought explodes in her mind then. Emily. She is still trying, bless her, to connect with her father. She still doesn't understand. Juliet has to find a way to make her see.

Her sweet baby girl. The only bright spark in that misery of a life.

_“He's different.”_

If only she had made an effort, then, to understand. If only she had reached out to Logan, to find out what made him try and warn her… 

Maybe he would still have been alive.

Maybe she would still have been alive.

Once William is finally gone, after having given her a goodnight kiss - the irony of the gesture makes her nauseous - she gathers the last shreds of courage, finds the card he hid and opens it.

**SUBJECT NUMBER: 002**

**__** _“He's different.”_

**CATEGORY 47B. Occurence .0072% (RARE).**

**__** _301.94 Persecutory subtype / 296.902 Delusions / 301.819 Paranoid subtype_

Digits and letters and scenes of unthinkable brutality dance in front of her eyes. With a considerable effort, she drags her gaze away from the horrors registered on the innocent piece of plastic and stares at herself in the mirror. It's a sad sight, really; not much is left of the woman she once thought herself to be. Her confidence is gone, and the ripped threads of her personality she struggles to hold onto are now intertwined with deep shadows that grow longer each day. 

Emily. That’s the only thing that matters now. The little dancer moves its tiny feet to the sound of a cheery tune and she can’t help a smile. Her baby girl. She’s smart and brave. She will be alright. 

The shadows are now reaching out to her, so close she can feel them, confining her, trapping her very soul in the same thick, oily darkness William attempted to shield her from. 

She’s done all she could. 

She’s done.

It feels strangely like relief.


End file.
